


scheherazade

by a_static_world



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Grantaire, Background Les Amis de l'ABC, Enjolras Has Feelings, Friends With Benefits, Friends With Benefits To Lovers, Getting Together, Grantaire being Grantaire, M/M, because I said so, enjolras drives a nissan, is that not a tag yet, richard siken based, scheherazade - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26554900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world/pseuds/a_static_world
Summary: “Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon-”“-that means we’re inconsolable. Didn’t know you knew Siken, Apollo. Also, it’s nine PM.”
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Les Amis de l'ABC Friendship
Comments: 15
Kudos: 87





	scheherazade

They’re lying together, legs tangled under sticky sheets. Grantaire props himself on an elbow, lights a cigarette, takes in the way Enjolras looks in the fading light. He was made for sunset, Grantaire thinks, lit in a way that were it not for the flush in his cheeks, one might think he was a statue, molded from purest gold. They’ve been doing this for a few months, now, ever since Enjolras broke his leg at a protest and Grantaire offered to stay the first night with him and, well, was met with far more enthusiasm than he’d expected.

Enjolras’ eyes are closed, lashes swept long and dark against his freckled cheeks. Whether or not he uses mascara is beyond Grantaire, whose only experiences with makeup have been Eponine dragging him through the JC Penny-enclosed-Sephora at the mall. Maybe Enjolras is just genetically blessed to have every possible combination of perfect features, and doesn’t need mascara. Suddenly his fingers itch not for a cigarette but for his pencils, so he stubs the cancer out on his bedside table and reaches a hand down the side of the bed for his sketchpad.

They only ever meet at Grantaire’s flat; he’d be offended if it weren’t for the fact that Enjolras happened to live with both Courfeyrac  _ and  _ Combeferre, who would be less than subtle should they catch on to… whatever this is. His hands work independently of his thoughts, sketching out the shape of Enj’s jaw, his cheekbones, details he finds himself almost loving. Almost, because inevitably Enjolras will tire of him, will find some new lost cause to pour his energy and devotion into, and Grantaire will just have to deal with it.

Enjolras stirs, curls catching the last strains of sunlight, blinking sleepily up at where Grantaire rests against the wall. No headboard; he isn’t fucking rich, but Enjolras told him it was endearing, so maybe it’s alright. Enjolras, damn him, leans over and kisses Grantaire’s knuckle, mouth sleep-warm and still swollen.

“Look at the light through the windowpane. That means it’s noon-”  
“-that means we’re inconsolable. Didn’t know you knew Siken, Apollo. Also, it’s nine PM.”

Enjolras scowls, both at the pet name and at the technicality.

“Forgive me for my petty romantics, R. I am  _ truly  _ inconsolable, however, because the way you look right now is downright sinful and I can do nothing about it.”

Grantaire prides himself on being steadfast. Cool and unflappable and  _ definitely _ not blushing at the way his nickname sounds in Enjolras’ mouth, that’s him. The mouth in question kisses him, chaste despite their recent activities, and the warmth that is Enjolras exits the bed. Grantaire turns back to his sketch, shading in bone structure and highlighting and smudging. He doesn’t even realize he’s frowning until a now-clothed Enjolras smoothes the wrinkles in his forehead, kisses away the furrows until Grantaire laughs and bats his face away. 

“Until next time,  _ cherie _ .”

And Grantaire  _ swears  _ there’s something akin to love in his eyes. Maybe it’s just the way they flashed in the last of the summer sun as the door shut behind him.

_ Next time _ turns out to be the next Saturday, exactly a week from  _ last time _ . It’s been a fucking  _ time _ of a week for both of them, as his ma would say, and Enjolras is barely through the door before Grantaire is on him, and then they’re on each other, and then time slows and stops and starts and pours like so many jars of honey. Tonight it’s Enjolras staring, after, leaning on an elbow and tracing Grantaire’s face with a fingertip. He closes his eyes, focuses on the feeling of the callous scraping his skin.

“Tell me about the dream where we pull the bodies out of the lake,” Enjolras whispers. “And dress them in warm clothes again. How it was late, and no one could sleep, the horses running until they forget that they are horses.”

“It’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere,” Grantaire starts, and Enjolras joins him for the next lines, voices mingling in the quiet dusk. “It’s more like a song on a policeman’s radio, how we rolled up the carpet so we could dance, and the days were bright red, and every time we kissed there was another apple to slice.”

Grantaire chuckles, raspy in the silence as Enjolras’ finger resumes its tracing. He cracks an eyelid, peering up at the fuzzily-haloed angel above him.

“Didn’t know you had such a thing for  _ Scheherazade _ ,  _ mon ange _ .”

Enjolras, to his credit, doesn’t blush. He simply smiles, brilliant in a way that makes Grantaire’s stomach do a backflip, forcing him to close his eyes against the brightness of it. 

“It’s nonsensically sensical, isn’t it?”

“Mmm, I suppose so. Stay?”

And Grantaire can feel the shift, knows how the guilt stamping Enjolras’ face will look before he even opens his eyes. So he doesn’t, waves a hand in mock defeat, hearing Enjolras laugh quietly as he rustles back into his clothes. He leans over for a kiss, and Grantaire complies, because he is utterly powerless to refuse.

“You make my days bright red, R.”

And Grantaire swears he is dreaming, because it is one thing to quote meaningless poetry into the air with your sometimes-lover. It is another thing entirely to be placed into the poem, become the object of said lover’s affections in a way that feels somehow more real than physical intimacy.

He falls asleep, and dreams of running until he forgets who he is.

It’s a Thursday; the Amis, as their friend group affectionately calls themselves, have drunk themselves silly in the local bar. Enjolras is in the corner with Bahorel and Feuilly, heads bent over some pamphlet or other. As usual, they’re the designated drivers. Bahorel’s body can’t process alcohol, Feuilly prefers to drink alone, and Enjolras hates losing control. As for Marius, Cosette, Eponine, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Bossuet, Jehan, and Grantaire, well. Suffice to say they’re a tad bit sloppier than the _ pères _ . 

Eventually, even Musichetta’s good graces run out, and the Amis stumble from the bar, feet heavier and wallets lighter than they were three hours ago. Marius, Cosette, Eponine, and Jehan crowd into Bahorel’s Audi, and Grantaire is surprised to find Enjolras’ hand firmly around his elbow as they split from the group. Normally, Enj would take Courf and ‘ferre, as they, y’know, live together, and Feuilly would drop Grantaire before heading home with Bossuet. 

Today, however, Enjolras seems determined to restrict the blood flow to his left forearm, tugging him towards his ridiculous, environmentally-friendly Nissan. Christ, he’s not  _ nearly _ drunk enough for this. His right hand fumbles for a cigarette, managing to stick one in his mouth as they come up on Enjolras’ car.

“You are  _ not _ smoking in my car, because the last time you did, it took me a month of driving with the windows down- in  _ winter-  _ and an entire bottle of carpet shampoo to get the smell out.”

“Have it your way, Apollo,” but the cigarette goes away as he slides into the passenger seat. Grantaire isn’t about to question the other man; Enjolras possesses a single-track mind at best, and distracting him while driving is  _ definitely _ a bad idea. So he sits quietly, fiddling with the radio as Enj drives them back to Grantaire’s flat. 

There isn’t much time for talking, once they arrive.  _ What if we get caught _ ,  _ what will Courf and ‘ferre think _ ,  _ why tonight _ . Questions that would go unanswered, for Grantaire frankly couldn’t form a sentence if he tried. Sex with Enjolras is always incredible, because it’s Enjolras, but tonight he seems more focused, more intent on Grantaire’s pleasure. 

When it’s after, when they’re spent and sweaty in the thick air, Enjolras resumes his tracing like no time has passed between Saturday and now. He trails a finger across Grantaire’s jaw, scratching through stubble to the column of his throat, his chest, dipping to his navel and coming back up again. The mass of blond curls resting against Grantaire’s chest tickles his chin but he doesn’t mind, not really, because somehow there’s a note of finality in all the tenderness, a quivering of an ending.

Enjolras’ hand stills as he turns his head, presses his lips to Grantaire’s nipple.

“Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.”

Grantaire’s breath catches. He knows how  _ Scheherazade _ ends. He’s just not expecting to hear it from Enjolras.

“These,” and the finger resumes its tracing, “our bodies, possessed by light. Tell me we’ll never get used to it.”

“Well,” and Grantaire’s voice shakes rather more than he’d hoped it would. “I know  _ I’ll _ never get used to it, at least.”

Enjolras sits up, sheet pooling in his lap, and oh, here it comes.  _ We can’t do this _ , he’ll say. I  _ can’t do this. Not with you. _

“I love you, Grantaire. I tried not to, and I’m sorry. You don’t have to say it back.”

Jesus Christ. Jesus  _ Christ _ what is his life. He’s got Lucien Enjolras,  _ the Enjolras _ , in his bed. Telling him he loves him.

“I don’t know whether to be offended or flattered.”

Enjolras’ face falls, and he twists away and god fucking damn it, Grantaire, you’ve done it again. 

“No, Enj, wait-” but  _ Enj  _ comes out like  _ ange _ and Enjolras moves faster, gathering his things until Grantaire, still very naked and slightly sticky, forces himself out of the bed and across the room.

“ Hey, wait, shit, I’m sorry. I love you too, I should’ve started with that.”

“Yeah, you should’ve.”

But Enjolras is smiling when he kisses him, and the world feels right again. Grantaire suddenly feels how Siken must’ve, putting those words on paper. 

_ Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us _ . 

**Author's Note:**

> i am alive! i'm functioning!   
> this has been in my wip folder for-fucking-ever but i love it so much, so here y'all go!!  
> i am very active on [tumblr](https://astaticworld.tumblr.com/) so come say hi if you're so inclined!  
> i promise i'll be posting again soon- school started, and i'm working, so things have been hectic lately  
> much <3,  
> static


End file.
